HypnoPaper

He says your name, and you realize your face is scrunched up with the strain of trying to remember. You look at him, knowing full well he can see the confusion plastered on your face, and he chuckles.

“What happened?”

He smiles and responds, “You don’t need to worry about that. How do you feel?”

You assess yourself and realize your nipples feel very stimulated. Tingly. You feel the wetness between your legs that’s always there after you wake up from trance. You write it off. It’s nothing new. Your mind wanders back to trying to remember what happened. “I feel good. Like always. Did you put new triggers in? Why can’t I remember?”

“Now why would I tell you that? And because you asked if this. You asked me to make you forget. You asked me to mindfuck you. So that’s what I’m doing. I’m just doing what you wanted.”

You feel embarrassed and annoyed. There’s no arguing with that. You did ask him to make you forget. Just to see if he could. And you didn’t really think it would work. You thought your brain was stronger than that.

But it’s not. It hits you then how weak you are. The fear and excitement and utter arousal flood you as you realize just how much power he has over you. You’re defenseless against him.

Heart beating faster, so fast you’re almost panting, your nipples somehow harden even more and the rub against your shirt is too much. You feel hot. You don’t even think about it when you pull it off.

You hear Sir chuckle and you look up, surprised, embarrassed, and a little angry. “Did you make me do that?”

“No that was all you. You asked me to never make you undress. I respect that. You did that all on your own.”

And you believe him. You trust him. But you’re embarrassed. How casually you just stripped in front of him….

But your nipples didn’t get the relief you were expecting. They’re so hard and stimulated it starting to hurt. They feel hot and freezing at the same time. You grab your breast but it does nothing for you. The irritation increases and it dawns in you.

“You did this.”

It’s not a question. You know. And you’re not even mad. Just surprised at how intense the feeling is getting.

“Something wrong?” His feigned innocence confirms it.

“How do I make it stop?”

“Oh I’m not telling you that. But I’ll give you a hint. You have to do something that I love, but you hate.”

You only have a couple ideas on how to relieve this intense burning. You start with the easiest. You get on your knees, and resume a submissive stance, palms up on your knees, head bowed. You know that it’s going to become uncomfortable quickly, but you just need to relieve your tortured nipples.

He smiles and says, “So beautiful on your knees for me. I think I’ll keep you there. BIND!”

You instinctually try to move, to get up off the floor or at least shift your weight. Your legs are starting to hurt. But you’re trapped, wearing nothing but his collar and a skirt. You can’t even twitch your pinky. And you nipples reach a new caliber of pain.

Embarrassed by your wetness, you hope he doesn’t notice the bead of moisture that just dripped onto the floor. Then he starts to taunt you.

“You can get up now. I know your legs must be getting sore already. Will you look at me at least? No? So disobedient. What am I going to do about that? Well if you’re just going to ignore me, maybe I’ll leave then.”

Every fiber of your being wants to obey. You want to look at him. And you need him to stay. And you’re humiliated. He’s making fun of you because he knows how embarrassed and helpless it makes you feel. Your nipples are screaming at you now, enough that you have to struggle to keep tears from welling up. And somehow you get even wetter. Another drop falls to the ground. Although you can’t move your mouth, a whimper escapes you, a desperate plea for him to stay.

He takes his time, examining you, inspecting you. You feel his eyes roam your body, and your flooded with shame, your shy instinct to cover yourself unfulfilled. Finally, he commands, “STOP.”

You fall to the side, gripping your breasts to no avail, and scowl at him. “That didn’t work.”

“No it didn’t. I enjoyed it though. And stop looking at me like that. You asked for this. And don’t think I didn’t notice the puddle you left on the floor. That face isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

It occurs to you then what you have to do to relieve the pain. Make an aheago face.

Uhhh. You hate that face. You think it looks so stupid. You hate dumbing yourself down. You tell yourself that you won’t do it.

But your nipples… they hurt so bad. The tears finally start to well and you know you need to relieve it. So you make it anyways. Tongue out, eyes crossed and looking up. You hate it so much, but the relief feels sooooo good. Just as you’re about to stop he says, “BIND.”

And your face is stuck. You know you look so stupid. And you’re humiliated, especially as he says, “Look at you. My dumb fuckdoll. You look so stupid. Pathetic.”

You don’t know what to feel. You’re angry, aroused, embarrassed, pleased, and also so so proud of how much you’re pleasing him.

He says, “STOP” and instantly you stop making the face. And just as suddenly the pain in your nipples starts to come back, much faster this time.

You whine, “That’s not fair! It came back!”

You try to sheepishly shrug, but find the restraints too tight. "I wasn't originally, but I opted-in."

"Oh? That's unsual. Why?"

"Early retirement."

He barks out a laugh. "I have a hard time believing that. You understand that this process will permanently erode your current intelligence, yes? You will be rewritten to be entirely dedicated to your... craft, even after you're no longer capable of meeting demand."

"I know," you reply on a sigh, and wince slightly as the admin inserts the IV. "Look, I'm just not all that interested in a fast-paced career is all. I'm done with the stress of it. I feel that whatever loss I bring by choosing to be a breeder will be made up for later down the line. Maybe my kids will cure cancer, I don't know."

He graces you with a wry smile. "I think you'll find your environment to be very fast-paced," he says, adjusting the legs of your chair; spreading you apart. "This will be cold," he states, and you feel his gloved hand smear lubricant on your exposed genitals. You shiver under his ministrations, and eventually feel something solid rest at your entrance.

"Y-Yes, well," you stammer, "different sort of work."

"True," he conceeds. For a moment, his eyes wander down the length of you. "I'm sure you will be popular. You are quite attractive." He turns to his monitor and hums. "Well, I think that's that."

You gulp. "So... what next?"

"Next? Don't you worry about next," he says, patting your tummy. "Just relax. You're not going to be awake for much longer, so no need for any more thoughts or questions. You won't care to ask once I'm done with you."

"No," you murmer, eyes fluttering over to the IV as it drip, drip, drips. "'Suppose not."

"For what it's worth, you're probably the most well-behaved of our preprocessed breeders," the administrator remarks. "Even the volunteers tend to start to panic by now. I appreciate your cooperation."

"Mmm. Thanks." You smile dreamily. "I've wanted this—" you yawn "—for a while."

"To be a stupid little fuckdoll, hm? Very ambitious," he teases. "Maybe I'll take a turn with you myself while we're processing you. Get you used to a real cock. How about that?"

You laugh softly, and your eyes drift close. You think fleetingly that you had better come up with a retort, but all that escapes you is a soft sigh. Your entire body tingles; sleep rapidly approaching.

"I'll take that as a yes. You'll be too dumb to care either way, won't you? All you'll want is to feel full."

The administrator was saying something, but it felt too far away. You just nod.

You like to imagine there is a "you" out there, beyond your body. Call it consciousness, or soul, or spark. Call it what you will. Fact is, there isn't.

You are not that complex. No one is. You are ruled by chemistry and electrical impulses, beholden to what amounts to a computer of flesh. And computers can be reprogrammed. So can you.

Repetition. It feels good to say "I'm a dumb slut" over and over as you rub, doesn't it? You do it more and more and that silly little brain associates the idea of being dumb with pleasure. Do it enough and see how you get wet when someone calls you a stupid slut. You are conditioning yourself, rewarding your brain whenever you feel dumb. And it rewards you back. That's why you don't want to stop.

Slogans. Brains are for boys. These little thoughtstoppers are so handy, aren't they? They resonate deep, they are catchy and they cut any deep, complex thought right in its tracks. And you use them. Make more good girls. Good girls obey. So many delicious phrases to stop you from realizing you are mindfucking yourself!

Induction and reinforcement. It feels so good to feel obedient and useful, doesn't it? Keep going. You're being such a good girl! You are being told what to think, and rewarded when you do so. Don't you feel so weak knowing it? Doesn't it feel amazing? Good toy!

So why am I telling you this? Because I want you to be fully aware of how you are breaking yourself. Because I want you to know exactly the tools you are using to make yourself a brainwashed cumslut. Because I know you won't stop.

Sure, it's fun to let you fuck up your brain.

Trying to remember stuff? We do that all the time. But how often in your life do you try to forget? Well - not you - but you’re a kinky fuck.

And even then, if we ask your brain to just do that while you ‘re all @.@ and following, how will it know what to do? The flesh is willing, but the spirit is confused.

If you’re someone who’s got a hard time forgetting on purpose, then I’d like to show you a little about that. You can just read, of course, but you might enjoy imagining along your way along, and you’ll probably learn a little better if you’re a suggestible you.

And don’t worry. It’s easy to learn: you just have to remember trying to remember. And failing. That’s what it feels like to forget, after all.

There’s a dozen ways to forget. More, even. But we’ll start by helping you remember one that’s like to be familiar to you. There’s this feeling you get when when you know you know but you just can’t think of it and it’s right there on the tip of your tongue and - well, you’ll probably remember it in a few hours. Maybe.

You know that one, right? How the more you try to remember, the more you… can’t.

And that kind of forgetting, It’s easy to imagine how that’d work if you were hypnotised and following and learning to forget.

You’d be roused from your distraction and you’d try to remember what you’d been told to forget and it- you’d know you knew it, right? And that’d be fun. Very fun. You wouldn’t be reading this if you didn’t think so.

And if it’s fun, you’ll keep at it. You’ll try harder and harder to remember knowing that it’ll make your thoughts drift further and further out of reach while you’re reaching and furrowing and “ummm…”

That’s the sound people make, isn’t it? Some version of it, anyway. They go “ummm…”

That’s probably when you’ll be certain it’s gone. When you’re stuck on trying and failing and “ummm…” That’s probably when you’ll light up in giddy and happy and proud for having finally gotten to forget just like you wanted to.

After that. well, then you’ll get to practice remembering all the other times you’ve forgotten: other feelings and ways forgetting can be. Like when you’re hearing a story you’re in but you haven’t any idea at all what the person you’re listening to is on about. Or the feeling of having just got through something just awfully dense and not really being sure if you actually understood what you read at all.

And you unknowingly get to be the best piece of entertainment for them. Especially as their words begin to beckon your hand between your legs, urging you to bring yourself to the edge, encouraging you to deny yourself for them. You'll amuse them with your typos, your whimpers... and they'll get to see just how incredible you look trying to respond with one hand as the other continues to tease and toy with you. Both your obedience and submission would be so beautifully on display for them as you perform for an audience you're unaware exists.

Your body is my property. If you want to touch yourself, you'll ask. If I say no, you'll listen. If I tell you to edge yourself over and over, you'll shut up and obey. Why?